Adventure, December 1914 — page 89: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Lancing of the Whale would try to cut his way to fresh air, if we set fire to the trees!” ‘“‘He’d manage it! His men are trained soldiers, and his officers veterans most likely. No! Lay siegetohim. Entrench. Hem him in tight, and hold him there until I come!” Partly regard for obedience, partly Dick’s grasp of situations, that had come to seem little short of supernatural to the Afghan, partly an intense desire to try his hand with those beloved captured guns, in- duced Usbeg Ali to submit without further argument. His pride was touched and tickled that he should be left alone with nearly all the men to pin down two Cossack regiments and hold them still. His favorite motto, that “Allah loves a brave man!” helped him to revel in the prospect, and the difficulties he foresaw were extra spices added to a sol- dier’s meal! He was fretful for a little while when Dick culled sixty men out of the four hundred that were chosen, and replaced them with Andry and his sixty. For a second he doubted Dick’s belief in his ability to choose, for the Afghans are a touchy race. ‘“‘The Cossacks have two machine-guns on that hill!’ he said sulkily. “You'll have one. Tl leave ours with you.” “And who shall use it? He—” he pointed to Andry with a gesture that was half admiration, half resentment’’—knows how. Who else?” ‘“‘Andry shall give you his best man. You must do the rest.” “Rut——”” 6“ Andry!” “Sir?” “Pick him a man!”’ ! There were three reasons, if no more, for taking Andry with him, and each was sound logic besides being military wise. In spite of orders and innumerable rebukes, Andry still spoke of the Afghan as a “black man” in unguarded moments. Without Dick to keep the peace, there would surely be jeal- ousy and there might be quarreling between the two. Then, Andry knew perhaps two dozen words of Persian; to leave him second-in- command of a besieging force whose mem- bers spoke only Persian would have been to waste a good man. The third good reason was the certainty of close-in, hand- to-hand perhaps, hard fighting—a business 87 at which the grim good-natured Andry ex- celled all other men; in a hard fight he was worth full fifty to his side. Out of range and very nearly out of sight of the Cossacks, Dick rode with Usbeg Ali around the hill and helped the Afghan place his men in such positions that, should the Russians try to cut their way through, a large force could be concentrated to oppose them in a minimum of minutes. He advised where to cut trenches and how to take ad- vantage of the cover of the trees. He rode here and there among the men, stirring them with words that might have been picked carefully from Persian sagas—words that went straight to the heart of each man —words that fell naturally from his lips because he was a great man, who spoke truth, lived and loved it. Circumstance, environment, taste, des- tiny—all seemed to point the way for Dick that afternoon. His motto—the motto of the Anthonys that has fluttered from their pennons or adorned their sword-hilts in the van of half the fights in modern history—=. came to his mind insistently and spurred him to swift action. ‘Agree with thine ad- versary quickly!’ There was one sure way, and only one, by which he, Persia, and Russia could arrive at an agreement of any kind. Russia must yield! Persia must be free! The answer could not be too quick to suit him! Andry was no whit behind him. The big man had a motto that had graced the crest on his regimental uniform. It was tattooed on the inside of his forearm, to remind him always of the one course that he knew with- out argument was right. “Hit never with- out justice, but hit first and hard!’ He looked into Dick’s eyes, glanced up and down the line of the four hundred, and then. back at the centuries-old claymore that hung in a Sam Browne belt at Dick’s waist. “Let me have it, Mr. Dicky. Let me see whether or no she’s shairp!” He drew the sword from the sling while Dick said a few last words to Usbeg Ali. He squatted on the grass like a giant gnome bending above the blade and sharpening it with a pocket hone until a man might almost shave with it. For about five minutes Dick stood watching him, smiling, the sun glint- ing between branches on his bare red head. More than ever Dick looked like some old- time Robin Hood—Andry like Little John; only, the rattle of arms around them was of DOOK C©